


we're gonna be just fine

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Past Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Post 3x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No, he's not there. He's somewhere else. He’s with chocolate curls and dusted freckles. The belt slices through his palms but it’s fine, it feels right. The tightness is okay because he’s pulling him up, up, up. Their heaving breaths mingle and he looks grateful, the knees of his pants are dirty, he should stand up now. </p><p>Murphy did good. He did just fine.</p><p>He’s fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're gonna be just fine

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T TRUST THE WRITERS WITH CHARACTER TRAUMA SO I'M TAKING OVER

 

Murphy’s fine. He’s fine.

Everything’s okay. He’s here, he’s alive, he can forget about this. He can pretend it never happened. He’s always been particularly skilled in the art of twisting the truth or abandoning it completely. Who’s to say he can’t lie to himself?

He’s fine.

He’s in the hideaway cave and she has swirling ink on her face and rough cloth around her hand. The dim light of the candle illuminates her teeth, the dimple in her chin.

No, no. She’ll never love him after this. It’s not good enough. It’s not fine.

No, he’s somewhere else, now. He’s with chocolate curls and dusted freckles. The belt slices through his palms but it’s fine, it feels right. The tightness is okay because he’s pulling him up, up, up. Their heaving breaths mingle and he looks grateful, the knees of his pants are dirty, he should stand up now.

Murphy did good. He did just fine.

Yes, it’s fine. He’s not here. The collar around his neck feels cold but that’s Bellamy’s hands, yes. The good kind of hands, strong but gentle because he’s not choking him, this time. No, he’s- he’s holding him. He’s holding up Murphy’s heavy head because he’s tired, so, so, so tired. His thumbs press into the softness under Murphy’s ears and he can breathe just fine. Yes, better than fine. He can finally breathe.

He’s _fine._

And he’s fine when her eyes are closed and not a muscle of her once pretty face twitches. He can’t even look at her.

He’s fine when the furs drag along the backs of his bare thighs as he rises, he’s not paralyzed anymore. The chain is slack and he can move.

He’s fine when the rough fabric of the robe that’s a few sizes too big scratches his pink-tinted palms. He slides it over tremblings arms and hooks the looping string around the bead with trembling fingers.

He’s fine when he pulls on his boots, quiet, quiet, quiet. He leaves his thick, warm socks crumpled on the floor. The sand on his soles bites his heels but it feels like home, if only for a moment.

He’s fine when he stands and the chain slithers off of the floor, rises with him.

She’s not careful. He picks the key delicately off of the bedside table. She shouldn’t have left that there. He aims it towards his throat and twists it into the lock, one way then another. It’s not right. He flips the key and tries again.

_Click._

Bingo.

He separates the collar and pulls it off of his neck, there’s a mirror in front of him. Angry red lines on creamy pale skin. The cold air hits the sweat beading on his face and neck and he wants to scream.

No, no, that’s stupid. He’s free, he should run. He should definitely run.

His legs shake where he stands. He lowers the chain in his hands to the floor, quietly. It scrapes the ground too loudly. _Cha-chink. Cha-chink._

He creeps to the door, pulls it open quietly. He refuses to look back at her, all risen scars and hair-pulling, chain-link palm imprints of her own design. He wants to forget her face.

He never feels himself close the door behind him, and doesn’t recall racing down the long hall on clumsy legs- he’s out of his body, and he’s never been a graceful runner.

 

Everything will be fine.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Nothing is fine.

 

Bellamy clambers over the sticks too loudly and his sister and Monty maneuver quietly on the path to the cave. He’s exhausted, his face hurts, and he feels utterly absent in mind and body.

She hates him. He didn’t protect his people, he didn’t protect her, he didn’t protect anybody. He can’t help anyone, so what’s the point, really?

He walks anyway.

“I’m sorry about L-”

Mistake.

Octavia bounds over a fallen log and shoves Monty’s arms away as he grasps at her jacket, her hair, anything. She’s on top of him in a millisecond, a forearm to his neck. Bellamy registers that he’s on the ground, that the soil under his head is cold and smells like earth and bone ash- which are kind of synonymous at this point- and that his throat feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. “O-” He manages, a hoarse whisper.

“Don’t even put his name on your tongue. _Don’t you EVER_ -”

Footfall.

She rises hurriedly, wielding her katana and keeping a wide stance. Something-or someone- crashes through the bushes wildly, and a brown blur stumbles onto the path and collapses.

There’s a weight on Bellamy’s chest. Physical. It’s real.

“B-Be-” It struggles.

Octavia steps forward, brandishing her weapon. Monty takes several steps back.

Bellamy sits up and shoves the thing off of him. It rises slowly.

“Murphy?” Octavia breathes, and Bellamy feels like he can’t, suddenly.

The boy in question nods shakily, and turns to Bellamy. He looks terrible.

The circles around and under his eyes are dark, his eyes look bloodshot and wet. His hair is disheveled and there are red rings around his throat. Cuts under his eyes and across his cheeks.

Murphy starts gasping for air, suddenly. His hands scrabbling for something to grip onto. He pulls his arms tight around his abdomen and leans forward, sobs catching in his throat. His shoulders shake as he cries and the other three are left with wide eyes and tightened chests.

Bellamy thought he had lost his Octavia forever- but then her sword clatters to the ground and she kneels next to him, places a gentle hand on his back. “Hey, hey.” She soothes in a voice like honey, and he hears his little sister again.

Murphy cries, and he cries, and he cries. Bellamy sits, kneeling in the dirt. Monty’s perched on a rock, trying to draw his eyes away from the scene, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“I- I just ran- I-” His own hiccups and sharp breaths interrupt him. “Emori’s g-gonna- I should’ve-”

“It’s okay,” someone says, and Bellamy doesn’t realize who until he sees a pale hand clutching his own, and his throat feels tight.

Octavia backs off as Murphy moves closer to Bellamy, seeking his comfort, now. Bellamy’s eyelids feel heavy as lead, he’s so tired.

It’s suddenly no longer a problem, because Murphy grips his bloodied uniform jacket and presses his face into it, and Bellamy, wide-eyed and unsure of himself, doesn't know what to do with his arms but to wrap them around the figure.

Bellamy whispers hushed nonsense into Murphy’s grimy hair, wondering where on earth he’s come from- what happened to him. What finally broke him.

“I’m so tired,” a small voice practically whimpers, and Bellamy wishes he had never seen him like this.

The older man’s heavy head drops to Murphy’s shoulder and his eyes sting. He’s tired too.

“I’m tired too.”

So he begins to cry, and wide blue eyes look up at him. “No, don’t,” he says, and wipes at Bellamy’s cheek with trembling fingers.

They collapse against each other, holding on tight.

 

Nothing is fine.

 

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
Monty set up a small fire, Octavia putting her anger aside for the night. “For Murphy and for Monty, not for you.” She hissed quietly to her brother as she curled up on her jacket and promptly fell asleep, just after Monty had done the same. The remaining two boys refused to give in to sleep- the night not to be trusted- holding their eyelids open by sheer force of will.

Murphy wondered what Bellamy had done in his absence, but merely considering the wide range of possibilities exhausted him, so he gave up shortly. He noticed lazily the way Bellamy watched him with that curious little glint in his eyes, but Murphy just couldn’t look at him the same after- he couldn’t look at him the same. Bellamy scooted closer, and Murphy mentally rolled his eyes, but the physical action would’ve been too draining.

No longer afraid to touch him, Murphy runs a finger over a matching laceration under Bellamy’s eye. Murphy twitches an eyebrow up in question. The curly-haired boy looks down in shame, and Murphy’s own cut stings. Shame is a feeling which is familiar to the both of them now. The freckled boy looks up at Murphy again, with those sad brown eyes. Those stupid, incredible eyes. "What about yours?” he rasps.

“Tortured me.”

Bellamy nods solemnly, looking apologetic for a reason unbeknownst to Murphy. He touches Murphy’s throat.

“Here.”

It’s a game.

“Collar. Chain.” _Cha-chink. Cha-chink._

Murphy touches Bellamy’s throat. A small cut just to the left of his Adam’s apple.

“Here.”

“Knife. O. Hostage," Bellamy answers. Murphy shakes his head in disbelief.

The man stares at him, touches the place just under his collarbone where Murphy's heart should be.

“Here.”

Murphy furrows his eyebrows. Feels his walls coming back up. Too much. Bellamy shudders. “Sorry.” He looks away and pulls his arms around his knees.

“I’m scared,” Murphy gives in and says, softly, before he can register himself speaking. Bellamy looks up carefully, chooses his words cautiously. “Of?” The smaller brunet continues, he can’t stop himself. “I’m tired. If I go to sleep they’ll take me. She’ll come and find me and she’ll take me _back_ there and she’ll-” He gasps for air. “The collar- the- and she’ll- and, and it’ll be-”

Bellamy moves closer, gently, as if approaching a wild animal. “Hey, shh... shh...”

He’s never seen Murphy this way- he's too fragile, too breakable. He's turned from ivory, to steel, to glass. Bellamy understands the feeling well.

“You’re not there- you’re here, with me. I’ve got you. I’m gonna-” Someone to protect. He can protect this one. He can do it right this time. His heart swells. “I’m gonna protect you. I’m right here, you’re with me and we’re in the woods and I’m gonna watch you and keep you safe. They won’t take you from me. We're gonna be fine."

Murphy nods shakily and rests his head on Bellamy’s thigh, letting his eyes flutter closed. Bellamy leans over and unzips Murphy’s boots, slides them off carefully and moves them aside. He brushes the younger's dirty fringe away from his eyes and cards his fingers through the tangles and knots as his breathing evens out at last.

Bellamy stares into the flames as the silence wraps around him. Nothing, nothing, nothing. His throat doesn’t feel so tight anymore. He can breathe now.

 

_“We’re gonna be just fine.”_

 

 

 

 

_(fin.)_

**Author's Note:**

> I TOOK OVER
> 
> ALSO LEAVE ME STUFF I LIKE IT THANKS LOVE YOU


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